


Strange

by LynnLarsh



Series: Domesticity is Boring [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angsty Schmoop, Explicit Language, F/F, Lesbian Sex, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2009445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A comment about starting a workout regiment goes about as smoothly as Seb expected it to.  What she doesn't expect, however, is what follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> Basically the creation of a passing comment and a joke. As always, none of this would have made it past the brain stage if it weren't for the lovely and talented and absolutely wondrful kali_asleep. All my love, you can has it.

"You want me to do _what_ now?" 

Jamie's eyes are barely peeking out at Seb over the top of her newspaper; she doesn't read it for the news, obviously (she's responsible for half of it anyway) but she does enjoy "a good fairytale" every once and a while. Whatever that means. Jamie raises a neatly (pristinely, even, if that were a word) arched eyebrow, waiting. Seb sighs; she can already tell this is going to be a long conversation, probably shouldn't have brought it up. Too late now. 

"Start some sort of work out regiment," Seb repeats. "Precautionary shit, you know. Cardio, some weight lifting, self defense training. I could help you set it up. Do it with you. If you want..." 

Jamie's just staring at her, newspaper laid flat against her lap. The tension is damn near tangible, multiplying and mutating into something gruesome the longer they both refuse to look away. Until finally, after far, far too long (and awkward) a moment, Jamie's face goes unnervingly blank. 

"You'd better watch what you're implying, Princess," she says, voice monotone, matter-of-fact, and somehow more threatening for of it. "I don't need to be able to run a 10K to make sure you meet a painful and agonizing death." And while her face remains scarily expressionless, her eyes are shining a bit as she adds, "I know where you sleep." 

Seb holds up her hands, placating. "I'm not implying anything. I'm just trying to make sure that next time you insult the head of the Yakuza, you actually have the stamina to outrun his hit men." 

Jamie groans, throwing her head back into the couch cushions with a pillowed thud. "Oh come _on_! Are you honestly still caught up on that? It wasn't _my_ fault the bastard decided to employ literal _ninja_ in between our last meeting. And besides, that's what I have _you_ for, isn't it, Sebby? To make sure I don't _need_ to outrun anyone." 

"Yeah, well," Seb sighs; this is going nowhere fast. "Then it would make my job a whole hell of a lot easier if I wasn't worried about you getting killed mid knife fight because you were never taught how to properly disarm your opponent." Seb runs a hand through her hair, not quite able to look Jamie in the eye as she goes on. "It's not just about being fit. It's about making sure you're safe. For times when I can't get there quick enough to save your arse." 

For a moment, it looks as if Jamie doesn't quite know what to say, how to respond. Not surprised exactly, just... Conflicted. But it doesn't last. 

"If ever there's a day when you're no longer capable of being 'quick enough to ‘save my arse' as you so eloquently put it," Jamie smiles and gets slowly to her feet; her eyes are blank again, cold and distant. She walks right up into Seb's personal space, suffocatingly so. Seb doesn't move, doesn't blink (doesn't breathe). "Then that's the day, Moran, that I consider hiring someone more competent to take your place." 

There's no weight in a threat like that, never needed to be, but it still stings. Enough so that Seb can't help herself from bristling. "Fuck you. You know what I mean." 

"Aw. You're worried about me," Jamie smiles; it's blatantly fake, not even an attempt at believable theatrics. It just pisses Seb off more. "It's cute." So does that. When Jamie turns away, collapses back into the couch with an almost childlike flourish, Seb has to will herself not to storm off. Which works decently well up until Jamie mutters (from behind her fucking paper again), "Worry all you like, darling, but just make sure you're doing your damn job. I don't pay you to advise me on how to make your life easier." 

Seb's out the door before she can say anything she'll regret. Well. Anything else. 

 

xxx

 

It doesn't come back up for weeks; Seb is too stubborn and Jamie tends to delete things she doesn't care about (not that Seb's totally convinced the brain works that way, probably uses it as an excuse). In fact, by the time it does come back up, Seb's pretty much forgotten all about it, almost doesn't catch the implication. Though in her defense, she's a bit more distracted than usual at the time. 

Stitching herself up is something Seb learned how to do in the army but learned how to perfect during her first year of being discharged; there's only so much an A&E is willing to ignore, and bullet holes isn't one of them. So it's not necessarily unusual for Seb to find herself digging out the first aid kit and setting to work on a fresh wound. A bit less frequent since working for Jamie, but still a common enough occurrence that she hasn't lost the skill. 

The hardest part is always getting the needle to pierce that first jagged edge of skin, that separation of flesh that no longer quite meets in the middle. Damaged layers that can only be forced together by thread and willpower and an obscenely large amount of scotch. 

Oh, and cursing. Also quite a bit of cursing. 

"Fuck!" Seb grunts again, the fabric of her shirt lodged firmly between her clenched teeth. Her hand is getting sweaty, the needle is slipping, and more than once she's had to stop completely for a breather and a rather large swallow of thirty year Glenlivet (a "present" from a client when things "didn't work out in his favour"). 

The wound is on her stomach this time, a well-placed (if terribly aimed) slash from a Boeing hunting knife. It runs from just below her rib cage to the right side of her hip. Not fatal, but stings like a bitch, and difficult as hell to patch up from this angle. With a wince, Seb gets the needle through both layers of skin, starts pulling at the surgical thread slow and steady. Definitely gonna scar, but probably could have been- 

"Doesn't _that_ look painful," Jamie's voice floats in from out of nowhere, shattering Seb's rather intense focus and damn near scaring her half to death. Enough so that, with the combination of pain and scotch fucking up internal reflexes, the shock accidentally causes Seb to rip the line of thread clean through the skin. 

"Son of a-!" Seb shouts, slams her fist down on the table at the sudden, sharp burst of agony. Scotch splatters across the wood (a fucking shame) and she nearly bites through her lip waiting for the added pain to fade. Jamie saunters up to the table, a figure from out of the shadows (the over-dramatic twat). 

"Looks deeps too," Jamie is saying now, voice a bit strange, a bit stiffer maybe, though it's hard to tell through the haze of pain. "Would you like some help with that?" And that sounds even stranger, but Seb's hand won't stop shaking from the aftershocks and she just really wants to get this over with. So by way of response, Seb leans back and holds the needle and thread (still partially connected to her wounded flesh) out in Jamie's direction. 

Jamie's no novice to blood (Seb learned that quickly enough) but since Seb's been in her employment, it's been rare to see her get her hands dirty (no need). This isn't quite the same, but Seb is still intrigued, still a bit surprised. Still in agonizing pain, so it doesn't matter how she gets stitched up (and by who) as long as she does. It becomes very clear very quickly that Jamie is far more skilled at this sort of thing than she should be. Seb tries not to analyze that, but it's really fucking hard, leaves something uncomfortable to settle in the pit of her stomach. 

So, as per usual, Seb opts for distracting herself. "Looks like you got out okay, then. Good to fucking know." Seb is aiming for sarcastic, but through gritted teeth, it loses quite a bit of venom. Jamie might be smirking, should be, but her head is down, so from this angle, Seb can't really tell. 

"Yeah, well," she mumbles. "Thanks to you." 

And that's the fucking strangest of the lot. 

Because this isn't the first time Seb's taken a hit to make sure they both get out alive, isn't the last wound she'll suffer for Cause Jamie, but this is the first time Jamie's taken notice. Not that Seb's keeping track (it's her job, not so much sacrifice as purpose) but more often than not Seb expects a, "Took you long enough," not a, "Thank you." 

Which is why Seb doesn't quite know what to say to that, and Jamie seems tired of talking all together, so they don't. They sit in silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of pain and the soft sounds of Jamie piecing Seb back together (fucking metaphors) until Jamie pulls the final stitch in place, cuts off the slack. 

"Good as new," Jamie says in another soft mumble (head still down, eyes still hidden) as if Seb wasn't meant to hear it. She's kneeling between Seb's legs, one hand on Seb's hip, the other on the table, the puddle of scotch slowly spreading until it works it's way under her fingers. 

"Jamie," Seb clears her throat, goes to sit up only to feel Jamie's hand tighten on her hip, holding her in place. She frowns. "You don't have to-" 

"You know," Jamie cuts her off, reaches with her free hand (fingers dripping with scotch) towards Seb's half empty glass. "This sort of thing is completely preventable. A few lessons in self-defense, a training regiment. Then maybe," she looks up at Seb in a way that would look almost concerned if it weren't so scolding. "You wouldn't feel so inclined to save my arse." 

Seb's gut reaction is to object, to get defensive, but the phrase sounds familiar, Jamie's tone still strange. It takes pathetically long for Seb to catch on. 

"I thought it was my job to save your arse," Seb whispers, no bite in the words, and finally, finally Jamie looks up, eyes gazing at Seb over the rim of the scotch glass. 

"Your job," she says, and that strangeness in her eyes has shifted, transformed into something dark and complicated and surprisingly fucking hot. "Is as my right hand." Her focus drifts low, dragging like a visceral, magnetic force over Seb's newly stitched stomach. Jamie lifts the glass to her lips almost absently, swallows, returns it to the table. She leans in and looks up, locks eyes with Seb as she adds, "You can't do your job if you're dead." 

And with that hanging between them, Jamie lowers her lips to Seb's wound, placing a wet kiss directly over the stitching. Seb's whole body twitches, the sensation of Jamie's mouth on her skin blending with the now consistent ache and the stinging burn of the scotch on her lips, until it's something indescribable. Something just this side of pleasure. Seb's never been one for masochism, but before Jamie, she was never one to take a hunting knife to the stomach for anyone either. 

Somehow Seb's hands have found themselves tangled in Jamie's hair, and it's a testament to the strangeness of the situation that Jamie doesn't comment. Maybe doesn't even notice, just proceeds to lick a stinging stripe up the length of Seb's abdomen, a mix of spit and scotch sinking into Seb's wound in a trail of fire. 

"Fuck, Jamie..." Seb hisses through her teeth, tightens her grip in Jamie's hair. Too many signals are firing off at once, the pain and the pleasure translating very quickly into a demanding and overwhelming desire, plain and simple. 

"If you die before I do, Tigerlily," Jamie whispers against the wound, a hot breath of sound, a catch of her lips against stitching. "I'll be incredibly disappointed." 

At that, regardless of the ache in her stomach, Seb can't help herself from pulling Jamie up, pulling her close, forcing their mouths together in a way that should be brutal, painful. Instead, it's just perfect, a harsh collision of lips and teeth, the taste of scotch and blood coating their tongues. It's second nature for them after that, the desperate attempt to remove each other of just enough clothing to get to what matters, to get to as much skin and heat and everything as possible. It's a clumsy, frantic battle, one that leaves Seb at an unfortunate disadvantage. Well. So to speak. 

Jamie's hands overwhelm her, lips distract her, and without her realizing, Seb suddenly finds her trousers hanging off the lamp-shade in the corner, her knickers torn and crumpled over by the telly. Jamie kneels once again between her legs and places an almost chaste kiss on the inside of Seb's thigh. And then she's dragging her tongue up the length of Seb's cunt and all thought processes becomes a frazzled mess of want and need and _more, god, fucking please_. 

It isn't long before Seb is moaning a constant stream of Jamie's name, teetering embarrassingly close to the edge mortifyingly quickly. Because as brilliant as Jamie is with her words, she's even better with her tongue. Seb barely has the mental capacity to wonder why Jamie is doing this. Not that they're strangers to fucking each other senseless, but it's rare for Jamie to willingly go to her knees for anyone, let alone Seb. Even if it is in the interest of mutually mind-blowing orgasms, Jamie's all about control, about taking what she wants when she wants it. Giving? Not usually her style. 

That's not to say Seb hasn't benefited from her momentary generosity in the past (and she most certainly is benefitting now) so Seb wouldn't put it past herself to just be over analyzing. Chooses to believe that, actually, because all of a sudden Jamie is sucking Seb's clit between her lips and nothing else matters. "

“God, Jamie... D-Don't stop..." Seb hears herself gasp on half second delay, waits for Jamie to stop out of spite, because obeying orders (even in the heat of the moment) is another thing Jamie isn't necessarily inclined to do that often. Or ever. But again, Jamie doesn't respond as expected, even goes so far as to increase the pressure of her tongue instead, dip one finger just so past the dripping tightness of Seb's entrance. 

And that's all it takes. 

Seb's orgasm rips through her, tears her to shreds. She very literally sees stars. It's impossible to think, to breathe, to function for a moment, to do anything but bask in the full body wash of serotonin and dopamine and aftershocks brought on my Jamie's still slowly lapping tongue. 

Eventually, Jamie pulls away, leaving Seb completely blissed out as she reaches back up for the glass of scotch, near empty now. She knocks the last of it back and licks her lips, inches her way up to Seb's stitches, kisses each one in turn. It still burns, but less so now, muted under the warm, post orgasmic haze. 

"Fuck," Seb groans, carefully removes her hands from Jamie's hair as Jamie continues to kiss her way up to Seb's neck, her jaw. "That was..." 

Jamie's grinning against Seb's ear; she can feel it. "Unbelievably sexy?" Jamie purrs, finally kisses her way to Seb's lips. It's languid and deep and warm and utterly, perfectly distracting. "One of the best fucks you've ever had?" Jamie adds in a whisper against Seb's lips. 

And it's another testament to the strangeness of the situation that Seb doesn't manage to filter herself before chuckling, "A bit unhygienic." 

They both tense. Jamie's lips freeze against Seb's before slowly (too slowly, dangerously slowly) Jamie pulls away, an eyebrow raised. "Unhygienic," Jamie repeats (also strange, also dangerous) so Seb backpedals, tries to save face before Jamie does something drastic. Like rip open her stitches. 

"You know," Seb swallows. "Just, the um. The scotch. And your... On my open wound. And all that." Jamie watches her too closely, too silently, for long enough that Seb is certain she's about to meet an untimely demise. But then finally (thank fucking god), Jamie grins. 

"Oh, Tigerlily," she coos, loops her arms around Seb's neck as she settles more firmly in her lap. She leans in, their noses practically touching with their sudden closeness. "Don't even try to pretend that you didn't love it." 

And (correction) that’s the strangest of the lot, almost domestic in its casual (fond?) directness. So much so that all Seb can manage is a bark of laughter and a quick, chaste kiss. Well, maybe not so quick, and (after a few seconds) _definitely_ not so chaste. 

"Yeah, alright," Seb chuckles and leans back, though not enough that she can't still feel the kiss-bruised fullness of Jamie's lips, taste the scotch and metallic tang of her own blood in the heat of their mingling breaths. "Maybe I did." 

"I know you, Sebina Moran," Jamie kisses her again, a casual press of their mouths together and apart. "Probably better than you know yourself." 

"I don't doubt it," Seb breathes, suddenly feeling a bit dizzy, like Jamie has pulled all the oxygen from her lungs just by being near. 

It's strange, unbelievable, but it's the only thing that makes sense. Seb doesn't say it, can't say it, (filter back online) but it's there. The concern, the obsession, the thing they don't talk about, not yet (not ever if Seb has her way). But it's there, in Jamie's lips, in the warmth between their bodies, in that look in Jamie's eyes like she can see all the way into the very depth of Seb's soul (probably can). It's there in the promise that Jamie is trying to make, to keep herself safe so Seb doesn't have to. 

As if there were anything in the world that could stop her. 

"Look, Jamie-" Seb tries, but Jamie's hand is abruptly over her mouth, a groan escaping past lipstick smeared lips. 

"Let's not ruin a perfectly good moment with sentimental drivel," Jamie says, and she looks so scolding, so disgusted at the thought that Seb can't help but laugh again, can't help but tighten her arms around Jamie's waist and pull her closer. Couldn't imagine ever getting close enough. 

"Thank god," Seb smirks. "'Cause I probably wouldn't have made it through. Dodged a bullet on that one." 

"Just so. But speaking of dodging bullets," Jamie grins, rocks her hips in a way that's all implication. "If you want to dodge another one, you should probably take care of what you started." 

Seb licks her lips, still smirking as she works a hand between them. "Technically, you started it." 

"Well then," Jamie presses in close, snags Seb's earlobe between her teeth. "The least you can do is finish it." 

Seb can already feel the heat between her legs growing into a persistent ache again. But even still, she has enough coherency left to mumble, "Is that an order... Boss?" 

Jamie arches into Seb's hand the moment her fingers inch below the waistband of Jamie's knickers. And Jamie still has the where-with-all to giggle, perfectly composed, "You and I both know it wouldn't matter even if it was." 

And Seb can't help but agree. Because that, finally (thankfully), isn't strange in the least. 

 

xxx

 

"I think that, if I have enough power to raze an entire city block," Jamie huffs a few days later, spitefully pedaling away on a stationary bike. "Then I probably have enough power to hire someone to blow it to smithereens _and_ bring me cake." 

Seb smirks, smothering a chuckle that she knows will be too fond. She checks the time on her smartphone, jots something down in her notepad, (a few scribbles under the heading, "Bootcamp a la Jamie" which Jamie will subsequently never see), and smiles. Because as much as Jamie is staring daggers at her, as much as she's probably planning Seb's violent death, she also hasn't quit. Not once. And that says more to Seb than a few petty threats (and some not so petty ones, for that matter) ever could. 

"Just one more mile, Boss."


End file.
